


the sound of death which is silence

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Coma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Euthanasia, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Mercy Killing, and it's sad, minor character though, so read with caution, this one deals with some heavy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: There’s medical jargon and statistics and sympathies but all Tim hears isNot going to wake up.Over and over. A sickening, morbid loop that cuts through every word, every thought, every memory his brain throws up at him.





	the sound of death which is silence

**Author's Note:**

> For my h/c bingo square “mercy killing”. Content warning that this one deals with euthanasia and is therefore angsty and sad. 
> 
> Set almost eight months after A Meeting of Minds, but basically all you need to know for context though is that Tim became a part of the Wayne family 2-3 years ahead of canon timeline and Jason is still alive. Also retconning what happened to his dad for fic reasons, so instead of being paralysed Jack Drake went into a coma.
> 
> Title from the poem 'Nothing But Death' by Pablo Neruda.

The hospital is always cold but today it seems colder. Tim shivers in his jacket and hopes Bruce doesn’t notice because then he’ll get that look on his face. The one that makes Tim feel unsure of what he’s supposed to do. The one that is caring and sympathetic and fatherly, with just the tiniest dash of awkwardness. Like he knows it’s a moment to do something parental, but he’s not sure what that thing is.

Tim has been living with the Waynes for eight months now and he’s seen the look too many times to count during that time. It hadn’t been there the first night, when Bruce Wayne had draped his jacket around Tim’s shoulders and sat with him while Mrs Mac talked to Commissioner Gordon. That night his actions and expressions had been easy, guided by the script of grief he knew so well. It had only been after, when Tim was settled into a guest room in Wayne Manor, that the looks had started. When Tim put on a tiny suit for his mother’s funeral, when he asked about going back to school, when Alfred made him stay home because he had a fever. When Bruce brought him to the hospital the first time.

Lately, it has been Jason who comes with him, walking the few blocks here to visit his father after school, and then Alfred or Bruce collect them both from the hospital. Tim knows that something serious is happening today because Bruce picked him up from school without Jason. And then, without any questions or discussion, they’d come here.

“Is something wrong?” Tim asks, pushing the words out past rubbery lips. He wipes sweaty palms on his pants, feeling nervous and jittery because Bruce never looks as serious as he does now unless something bad has happened.

Bruce glances at him, a quick flick of calculating eyes, and says, “The doctor wants to discuss your father’s condition.”

Which means yes, something is wrong.

There’s medical jargon and statistics and sympathies but all Tim hears is  _ Not going to wake up _ . Over and over. A sickening, morbid loop that cuts through every word, every thought, every memory his brain throws up at him.

He remembers the time his dad took him into work when he was five and proudly showed him off to his employees-

_ Not going to wake up. _

Sitting on his dad’s shoulders so he’s tall enough to watch a ballgame over the cheering crowd-

_ Not going to wake up. _

Waving at the airport, hands and face pressed to the glass as his parents disappeared onto the plane-

_ Not going to wake up. _

Pacing at the bottom of the stairs, checking his watch again and again, hoping this time they’ll be back when they said-

_ Not going to wake up. _

Seeing his dad in that hospital bed for the first time-

_ Not going to wake up. _

Watching his mother’s casket being lowered into the ground and feeling so alone-

_ Not going to wake up _ .

He’s aware, distantly, that Bruce is shaking the doctor’s hand, and then there’s a hand on Tim’s shoulder, guiding him out of the room. He walks robotically, moving without conscious thought. He thinks Bruce asks whether he’s okay. (Stupid question.) He thinks he says he’s fine. (He’s not.)

They go to the room where Jack Drake has been lying for eight months and Bruce waits in the hall to give Tim some privacy. Tim’s not sure he wants privacy; privacy gives him too much time to get lost in his head. He sits beside his dad and forces himself to chatter about his day, his plans for the weekend, and the whole time  _ Not going to wake up  _ hangs over his head like an anvil attached to a fraying rope.

He’s not sure how long he stays there but it feels like too long and not long enough at the same time. Every minute an eon and a jiffy. Visiting hours are long over by the time he stands and lets Bruce wrap an arm around his shoulders, lets himself lean into the almost-hug for a long moment before they go home. (The only home he has now.) The Manor is brightly lit but empty, Alfred and Jason probably busy in the cave. Batman should be getting read to g out on patrol soon as well, but instead of suiting up, Bruce sits him down in his study, folds his hands in his lap and fixes Tim with the look. The one he’d been so anxious about earlier which seems so unimportant now.  _ Everything _ seems unimportant now. 

“Legally, you can’t make the decision because you’re a minor,” Bruce explains. “But your father’s attorney got in contact and agreed that what you want to do will be considered. If you think it’s worth keeping him on life support-“

“It’s not,” Tim says. “That’s what the doctor said, right? He’s not going to wake up so it would just be prolonging the inevitable.”

One of Tim’s favourite things about Bruce is that he doesn’t baby him. Sure, he’ll hide things if he thinks they’re sensitive or traumatising or it’s the best thing to do, but if Tim confronts him with the truth, he won’t deny it. Now is no exception.

“With such low chances of recovery…” Finding the right words to deliver fact without sounding too clinical is clearly causing Bruce pain, but Tim doesn’t stop him, doesn’t say it’s okay, he understands. He needs to hear the words. He needs someone to say what his heart denies is true. “The doctors say they’ve tried everything they can but there’s almost no brain activity. He’s not really alive anymore, Tim, I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Tim says. And his voice is calm even though his mind is screaming. He’s not even twelve years old; he shouldn't have to make decisions like this. But at the same time, he doesn’t want someone else to make them. Not an attorney whose only connection to his father is the money he’s paid to represent him, not a doctor who has gone through this many times before. “Tomorrow, then.” The sixteenth of May. A Thursday. As good a day as any, he supposes.

Bruce nods but he seems reluctant. Tim turns and flees to his room before he decides they need to talk about this more. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to do anything except stop thinking and feeling for a while.

That night Tim curls up under the bed covers and weeps. Bruce and Alfred must have told Jason what was going on, they must have all agreed to leave him alone, because shadows pass under his door but nobody knocks. Nobody comes in to offer empathy or comfort. There is, Tim suppose, no comfort to offer. Maybe no empathy either. Having your parents die is one thing, having to decide whether it’s worth keeping them alive is another entirely.

By the time the sun creeps over the horizon, Tim’s tears have dried but, despite feeling exhausted and drained, he hasn’t been able to sleep. Bruce brings him breakfast on a the tray, but doesn’t insist he eat it when Tim says he’s not hungry. Instead, he puts the tray down and sits on the end of the bed, hand resting on Tim’s ankle over the covers.

“Do you remember what I said to you when your parents were kidnapped?” he asks.

Tim does. It had helped then, a little bit, but the words just feel hollow and useless now. He says them anyway. “Be strong. And always remember that life has to go on.”

Life, total. That huge concept that encompasses all of earth. Not one, ultimately tiny, ultimately insignificant, individual life. Not his father’s life. 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know it’s hard,” Bruce says, voice quiet but confident. And Tim has to bite his tongue against the surge of tearful anger, remind himself that yes, Bruce  _ does _ know. “But I promise it won’t be this hard every day.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. Promises are just words. Nice words that make you feel good inside, but still just words. His mum and dad made promises all the time (“Yes, Tim, we promise we’ll be home in time for your birthday”; “We’ll be at your parent-teach meetings this time, Tim, I promise”; “I promise you can come with us next time, Tim”). Sometimes they were kept, more often they weren’t. But when Bruce says it… Maybe it’s because he’s Batman, maybe it’s because he cares even though he doesn’t have to, maybe it’s just because he sounds like he believes what he’s saying and  _ Bruce would know _ … Tim believes it. 

That promise is enough to carry him out of bed and through dressing for the day. It’s enough to help him smile at Alfred when he goes downstairs. It’s even enough to stop him from shutting down the second he steps foot in the hospital.

Maybe it’s not entirely the promise though. Maybe it also has something to do with Bruce’s strong, steady presence at his side. Never more than a few few feet away from a comforting hand on his shoulder or a quick, reassuring look.

Bruce hesitates at the door to the hospital room though. “Would you like me to stay?” he asks. And Tim is surprised by the question because he just assumed that Bruce would.

“Please,” he says.  _ I can’t do this alone. You’re the closest I have to family now. _

The blinds are half-mast, blocking out Gotham’s weak grey sunlight, and the lights are dim. It’s quiet. Peaceful. It makes Tim’s skin crawl. He’s been here so many times since his parents were kidnapped that he could draw a map of the room with his eyes closed. And yet, when he takes a deep breath and reaches for details to distract his mind from the wave of grief that wants to drown him, all he sees is his father’s pale, still body in the centre of the room.

“Take your time,” the doctor says.

Tim sits down and, after a second of hesitation, takes his father’s hand. There are things he could say - things he  _ should  _ say - but Tim’s tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth. When he was a little kid, waiting at home for his parents to show up after months abroad, his mind was always full of things he’d say to them. Menial things like “Mrs Mac made cheesecake for desert last night”. Childishly important things like “I got full marks on a spelling test today”. Emotional things like “I missed you so much, please don’t leave again”. But when his parents would actually step through the door, laden with suitcases and gifts, the words would vanish. 

It’s like that now. He’d lain awake all night thinking about this moment and now that it’s happening he just feels… hollow. Empty of any thoughts or feelings except a numb kind of sadness and an icy anguish because  _ it’s just not fair. _

The moment, the one that turns his life upside down for the nth time, is hardly a moment at all. It’s quick, it’s anticlimactic-

_ It’s over. Oh god, no, please another second, I didn’t even say- _

“I love you, dad,” Tim whispers. His voice is choked and shuddering with the tears that wet his cheeks.

The monitors go dark.

The room is silent.

And it’s official: he’s no one’s son anymore. He’s just lonely little Tim Drake. Only surviving child of Jack and Janet Drake. Orphan.

There’s a morbid part of his brain that laughs and says  _ well at least you’ve met all the requirements to be Robin now! _ He hates it. He doesn’t want to be Robin right now. He just wants his parents back.

“Tim?” A murmur in the ringing silence. And then warm arms wrap around him, pulling him back against a solid chest, encasing him in their warmth. 

In a second, he’ll be strong, Tim tells himself as he crumples into the hug. He just needs a moment. Just one. And then he’ll be strong and go on with life. 

In a second.

Just… one second...

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


End file.
